


Observance

by pizzaboys



Category: Professional Wrestling, World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: Angst, Character Study, M/M, a reinterpretation of sorts, also known as: I try to flesh out ambrollins' 2017 reconciliation arc
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-08
Updated: 2019-06-26
Packaged: 2020-01-06 22:46:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18397895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pizzaboys/pseuds/pizzaboys
Summary: Dean really wasn’t to be trusted with alcohol, or anything to do with Seth Rollins; he got too sappy and worrisome over a stupid piece of scum who didn’t deserve his time nor attention.





	1. Chapter 1

Dean was at a house show when he heard the news that Seth Rollins was on the homebound journey to Wrestlemania again, having re-injured his knee during the live show on Monday night. It made Dean wonder just what regrettable stunt he had done; after all, that dumbass was known to go overboard with anything, and everything. Perhaps he’d jumped off a damn balcony again. Or maybe he’d attempted to do a Pedigree on the announcer’s table, and landed on his knee awkwardly. At the time, Dean was busy trying to focus his thoughts onto the logistics and the reason for Seth’s injury, and nothing else.

It was at a nondescript motel room where Dean watched the video of the moment of Seth’s second injury. It was fascinating, almost, seeing Triple H easily dismantle the man who’d given up his all for him. Seeing Seth sprawled out on the ground reminded Dean of himself all those years ago, with Seth, fresh off from betraying his brothers, stood tall, a steel chair tight in his grasp, and Triple H gripping his neck with a smug grin. _I win,_ Triple H had mouthed to Dean, who was still struggling to piece together everything at the time, the shock clinging to his brain.

At the repressed memory attempting to resurface, Dean had to take a moment to breathe. He pressed his palms to his eyes, muttering curses.

As much as he didn’t want to admit it, Dean was curious as to what the scumbag’s status was post-injury. His ego didn’t allow him to ask Roman, who always seemed wary of discussing Seth with him no matter the situation, so he had to resort to cyberspace, which turned out to be a futile attempt. He wasn’t sure what exactly he expected to come across; the only things he could find were news articles of whether Seth Rollins could make it to this year’s Wrestlemania, with no updates on his injury. Oddly, it made Dean’s blood boil.

In the end, it was one of the staff members who went through Seth’s files and helped Dean – after promising him that they would not tell anyone or anything about Dean’s snooping around – with uncovering Seth’s current status, and his address. With that information, and more than several cans of beers later while deliberating what to do with it, Dean Ambrose was on an afternoon flight to Quad Cities.

He massaged his temples as he uncomfortably shifted in his narrow plane seat. He really wasn’t to be trusted with alcohol, or anything to do with Seth Rollins; he got too sappy and worrisome over a stupid piece of scum who didn’t deserve his time nor attention. He obviously didn’t know how to _think,_ either, considering that he wasn’t even sure Seth would let him inside his house. Dean tried to lean back and relax, but ended up fidgeting all the way to the destination.

Seth’s hometown was an expanse of nothingness, almost too quiet for Dean’s liking, quite different to the hustle and bustle Dean had experienced before. Only a few fast food chains here and there, with mostly run-down, almost ancient buildings scattered around the vicinity. It was a wonder how such a seemingly harmless, peaceful town was home to one of the most fucked-up people he had ever met, truly. You’d think he’d have some of his hometown’s characteristics and grow up as a wholesome country boy, but _nope._

Dean had known Seth had his _ways_ —Dean was in no position to judge him on it—but it had never occurred to him that Seth’s almost fucked up ways would bite him in the ass in the form of multiple chair shots in the middle of the ring. Had their relationship been that fickle for it to end that way? As he looked out the window of the cab he’d hailed, he realised that the main thing that really defined their relationship – not their brotherhood with Roman, but this one-on-one relationship he and Seth shared, if they could even label it as one – was hook-ups in the locker rooms and hotel rooms. And maybe stealing kisses in the stairwell. And maybe giggling to each other late at night under the bed covers. And, okay, maybe knowing each other’s deepest insecurities, despite not having discussed any of them in extensive detail to each other. There were certain things you just _knew,_ without having the other person speak of it out loud.

For example, Seth being a bundle of anxiety who could not handle any criticism, or accept anything other than perfection under all that fake pomp and arrogance was a known fact to Dean. Only Seth knew that Dean had moments where he felt so much, yet so empty, where he needed to do _something,_ to punch the wall, or swipe at the fucking air, or just, burst into flames or jump off something, to rid himself of this feeling. And it was only Seth who knew how to deal with him, how to wrap his arm around Dean and cradle him to sleep, or at least to a point where he could calm down and listen to Seth’s heartbeat, muttering empty curses as Seth laughed at Dean’s attempt to harden the softer mood.

They weren’t boyfriends, not really. Sure, they’d kissed, they’d slept together, they’d shared some of their deepest secrets. But they weren’t, as the rom-coms liked to put it, _together,_ together. They were vague, yet obvious. They never confirmed anything, but they weren’t nothing to each other, either. And maybe Dean’s hand lingered far too long around the small of Seth’s back after they embraced, and maybe Dean had considered, once, for a brief second, what it would be like, living with Seth, having a warm body pressed up against him every night, cradling him to sleep, instead of only relying on extreme exhaustion to knock him out in his empty Vegas home.

Or maybe everything was a farce, and they were just each other’s tool to let off some steam. But that would be Dean trivialising their relationship; Seth did have a habit of accusing Dean of being both too emotional, and emotionally distant, after all. While Dean was inclined to agree with those accusations, he couldn’t help but wonder what would have happened if Seth knew the sappy thoughts that circled Dean’s head.

Whatever relationship they had, it was fucking complicated, and Dean didn’t like complexity. He didn’t have the capacity to process and organise shit like this, at least not like Seth Rollins.

The cab came to a stop. Dean grimaced at the amount he was charged with, but stuffed in some extra change, anyway. He hopped out into the quiet neighbourhood, now saturated with red as the sun set, and faced the one-storey house to his left.

Seth’s house was quaint, painted with an ugly hue of what seemed to be brown, with some unkempt bushes in the front garden. A typical homely suburban house. Dean had almost expected him to have moved into a mansion of a house after his questionable success, but it was at times like this, Dean remembered Seth hadn’t always been a spoiled brat. Just like Dean himself, he’d worked his way up, beginning as a scrappy, ambitious teenager from the nowhere state in the Midwest, and, unlike Dean, ended up choosing to sell his soul to a devil for success.

To Dean’s annoyance, no one answered the door. Dean was far too prideful and petty to give Seth a call before he’d left for Quad Cities, not to mention he’d deleted Seth’s number out of pure spite post-breakup.

(He pretended he hadn’t the scumbag’s number memorised since day one.)

“Seth!” Dean called out, rapping at the door impatiently. “Open the door!”

It wasn’t the best way to present yourself at someone’s house uninvited, in retrospect, especially if that someone was an ex-something, someone he’d been fighting against in the ring only up till a few months ago, but it had to do.

He was about to rap on the door again when it swung open, revealing a dull, blotchy-faced Seth cradling a small, yapping pup. That Yorkie of his with the human name, Dean presumed. Kevin? Kenneth? Kennedy? Kevin, most likely. Seth’s tendency to give his pets human names had always bothered Dean, but it wasn’t the time to bring it up now, not when Seth was about to close the door on him—

Dean immediately launched his foot forward to stop the door from closing, and let out a pained hiss as the door squashed his foot against the doorframe. Seth had swung the door hard; and Dean had to admit, it wasn’t so much the physical pain that bothered him—he’d gone through a lot worse—but the fact that Seth seemed so adamant in shutting the door on his face. Rejection, Dean thought, eyeing Seth wearily and gripping the doorframe tight, was never a nice feeling. Especially when it came from someone like Seth.

Not that they’d shared anything for the past few years for him to still feel such a way.

Seth scowled. “What do you want?” he spat, his nasally voice now even harsher. He didn’t open the door any further, however, and instead kept it pressed against Dean’s foot.

 _Asshole,_ Dean thought, but noted that the painful pressure was gone.

“Hey to you, too,” Dean said. He tried to control the amount of sarcasm that dripped from his voice, but it was already overflowing. Not the best way to begin the conversation, but it was impossible, what with Seth dumbass Rollins scowling at him from his house, a yapping Yorkie squirming in his arms.

Seth didn’t seem to care for his tone, however. He instead hissed, “Why are you here?”

Dean paused. “Well,” he said, his eyes wondering away from Seth’s weary ones. Dean was suddenly self-conscious as he stood on Seth’s front porch, his foot caught in the doorframe.

During his flight, Dean thought he would have a lot to say to Seth; he imagined laughing in his face, telling him that karma got him good. He’d thought he would gloat at Seth’s misery in being betrayed by the person he’d betrayed his brothers for. Maybe even sadistically watch the scumbag struggle with the possibility of not participating in Wrestlemania again.

But he knew he couldn’t do it. He wouldn’t. And maybe he already knew deep down he wouldn’t do it; he didn’t have the guts to be so sadistic, but he came all the way over to the Quad Cities again, anyway. He had been curious, that was all; he wanted to know how Seth was faring, he wanted to know the details to his injury – and it all came naturally, as if being worried for him was something so _normal_. The numerous cans of beer didn’t help in alleviating the thoughts that poked at his brain, and instead had encouraged him to purchase a $300 ticket straight to the scumbag’s lair.

“I dunno,” Dean finally answered, after a lengthy pause. It wasn’t necessarily true; he knew, deep down, the answer was as simple as, _I was worried,_ but he couldn’t bring himself to say it. “I was drunk. Next thing I know, I’m here.”

It was an excuse if anything, and he wouldn’t blame Seth if he tried to shove him out again, given his pathetic reason. But it was true, to a certain extent; alcohol was partially the reason that made him get on the plane and set foot in this empty, empty place. (He tried to ignore his common sense screaming the answer in his head, _You’re worried for him, you fucking idiot. That’s why you’re here. You’re here because you’re worried about Seth Rollins, certified scumbag_.)

Surprisingly, Seth didn’t immediately shut him out of the house. Instead, he shifted awkwardly in his spot, looking at Dean with less hostility, but with more… what was that? Worry?

“I’m fine now,” Dean said hurriedly, “I didn’t drink that much. Just a couple of beers.” Wanting to appease Seth over his drinking habits came so naturally to Dean again, despite not having done it for a few years now. He ignored the lump in his throat.

Seth looked at him, his expression now hard to read. “I don’t care,” Seth said, after a moment of pause. “Leave.”

“Seth.”

“What.”

“C’mon.” The voice inside his head was insisting he just leave, and pretend this never happened, but Dean was too stubborn to do otherwise.

“What do you want from me?” Seth asked warily.

“Just let me in,” Dean said tiredly. The exhaustion had seeped into his bones. “I just wanna talk.” Yeah. That was what he was going to do. Talk. About what, he didn’t have an exact idea; he wasn’t sure he even had the energy to have some kind of conversation with Seth. He doubted he had enough energy to have some hold over his emotions.

Seth scoffed. “There’s nothing to talk about. You’re just gonna jump me, anyway.”

“I’m not. Never was,” Dean said, gesturing at Seth’s knee, or what was visible of it through the open doorway. “Even if I was, you can’t exactly retaliate right now, anyway.” He tried cracking a smile.

The light-hearted comment was Dean’s way of attempting to loosen the situation, a crooked smile to diffuse the tension. And it was true; he’d never come out here to physically attack Seth, no. Yes, he’d considered laughing at him, maybe be a bit spiteful, but even then he wasn’t being serious. It was just a way to make himself feel better about getting sappy enough about an ex-something to fly all the way to the nothingness that was Iowa to check up on him. He hadn’t gone out of his way to get revenge on Seth since… well, not even since his first injury, not really. Dean hadn’t even felt half the hatred when they’d battled for the World Heavyweight Championship title a few months ago. The animosity towards Seth, the seething anger from the betrayal, had slowly died down. The utter contempt (and despair, if you looked closely enough) he saw in Seth’s eyes as the scumbag screamed, _You stole my life from me,_ while pointing at the title on Dean’s shoulder had almost been a cathartic experience.

And, if he had to be _really_ honest, downright orgasmic.

Perhaps that moment, when Dean realised that he had possibly gotten the best revenge against the pompous bastard by stealing the championship (his _life_ ) right under his nose, and when he realised the scumbag was self-destructing under pressure, released him from the anger and despair Dean had harboured since the betrayal. The explosive emotions Dean had felt towards Seth had slowly morphed back into a repressive state, no longer needing to jump Seth whenever he got the opportunity.

Dean supposed he welcomed not having to feel such resentment towards someone he’d, well, appreciated.

Meanwhile, Seth didn’t seem to see the light in Dean’s comment. He stared at him, long-suffering, while Dean fidgeted under his scrutiny.

“I got no place to stay tonight,” Dean said, for the last time. If this didn’t work, then he’d have to empty out his wallet to get back to the airport and make his way back to Vegas. Dean realised it was pathetic of him to be so clingy like this, but, again, he decided to ignore common sense for now. “I’ll be out of your hair by tomorrow, man. Promise. I don’t even know why I came here, anyway. You know how I am. Doing things without thinking through ‘em.”

_You know how I am. Going by my instincts. Following my heart. Arriving at your doorstep to see how you’re doing, because as much as I don’t want to admit it, I’m worried about you. I’m worried about how you looked so fucking tired all the time on TV. I’m worried that this second injury will take a toll on you, and I know just how fucked up you are already. I want to see you safe, as much as it pisses me off to admit it._

Dean didn’t say that, however.

Seth scrutinised him quietly, that unreadable expression on his face again. It didn’t take long for him to sigh and swing the door to open, dislodging Dean’s foot from the crack—he really had his foot stuck between the door and the frame this whole time, didn’t he—and allowing him to enter the house.

The interiors were almost the complete opposite to what Dean had thought of the exterior, the homely feeling non-existent. Seth wordlessly led him to the living room, an area with too-white walls contrasting with an ugly black sofa; an almost bare, empty stretch of space that made him scoff. Even _he_ had better taste. The only sign of a human being residing in this almost godforsaken place was the PlayStation controllers and a Madden game pack that were haphazardly strewn across the coffee table.

Seth set himself in the corner of the bare living room with Kevin still scooped up in his arms, petting the dog almost robotically. Dean sat himself on the sofa, and opted to stare intently at the worn-out wool throw that was crumpled next to him, fidgeting with the loose strands. He tried to ignore anything and everything, to be honest, especially now that he could clearly see Seth’s exhausted face and dark circles that nearly reached his knees. Dean glanced at Seth’s braced knee.

Something about Seth’s current state, the tiredness that didn’t suit someone like Seth Rollins, made Dean sober up.

“How did you even get my address?” Seth asked, breaking the silence. His voice was bitchy, but no longer hostile. His hand was busy petting Kevin mindlessly, though the pup now seemed agitated by his owner’s never ending attention. Kevin yipped, and Seth set him down. The dog walked over to Dean and nipped at his toes.

“Got someone to check your file,” Dean muttered.

“That’s—”

“I just wanted to know how you were doing, okay?” Dean interrupted. His jaw was so tense it almost hurt; he sighed and rubbed his eyes roughly. “I saw what happened with Hunter,” he started. He was already struggling with his words. Maybe he shouldn’t have come here. He was just a trespasser at this point, an unwelcome, drunk ex—ex-something, whatever—interrupting Seth’s night. “I heard you got hurt again, and I felt like I had to see how you were going—”

Seth immediately bristled. “You mean you’re here to pity me,” he said flatly.

“What?” Dean blinked up at him, his shoulders squaring up at the sudden change in atmosphere.

“You’re here because you want to laugh at how pathetic my life is.” Seth let out a bark of bitter laughter.

“Seth—”

“No, no, no. You and Roman probably laughed about how karma bit me in the ass. You probably laughed about how I deserve all this, that I deserve to be put on the shelf forever,” Seth said, almost hysterically. “Look, I already know that I deserve every single shit that’s happening in my life, okay? But that doesn’t mean that I won’t get hurt over people like you coming over here to gloat at my shitty life—”

“—Can you for once,” Dean said loudly, “stop playing the fucking victim?” He hadn’t spoken to this asshole in a long time that he’d forgotten how insufferably self-centred he was. Fuck Seth Rollins for thinking he and Roman had laughed at his misery, when they never did – did he know just how worried Roman was? How anxious he sounded on the phone, talking about how he saw the injury happen in the gorilla? How torn he was that he couldn’t save Seth, how guilty he’d felt, frozen in his spot, unable to decide what the fuck to do, while Seth was writhing in pain?

“I did it for myself, okay? Think of it like that. I’m not here because I want to laugh at you. Rome and I never laughed at you for all this shit. We would never. _Ever_ do that.” He took a deep, shuddering breath, his hands now trembling. “No matter how much _shit_ you gave us, we would never wish for you to get hurt, or end your career early. _Never._ We’re not like you. Stop assuming that everyone thinks the same way you do. I just wanted to see how you were going. I’m not here to laugh. And I don’t give a fuck about how you feel about this situation.”

Perhaps claiming he didn’t give a fuck at how Seth felt was too harsh; but Dean was too wired up to really reflect on his words at this point. He pretended he didn’t see Seth visibly flinch at his words.

Seth stared at him incredulously now, his face contorting as if he was trying to make sense of Dean’s words. Dean couldn’t blame him; he wasn’t exactly sure what he was trying to convey, either. But Seth let out a shaky sigh, his body suddenly deflating, and shook his head sadly.

“You never cared about how I felt,” Seth said quietly. “You never cared about what I had to say or what I thought. And people wonder why we ended up like _this_.”

Before Dean could say anything to that, Seth turned on his heels and walked away, the tense atmosphere weighing heavily in the living room.

“I need a place to crash,” Dean called out, watching Seth retreat into his bedroom. It wasn’t the best thing to say after a heated talk, but what the fuck did Dean know about civilised discussions?

Seth visibly stiffened. “Fuck you,” he spat out, and slammed the door closed.

“Fuck,” Dean muttered, and flopped back on the sofa.

 _And people wonder why we ended up like_ this. Why Seth betrayed them. Why they had to end their brotherhood like that, Dean and Roman struggling to get up as Seth smashed their backs with a steel chair, as a smug Triple H looked on.

Dean knew, deep down, why Seth betrayed them. It wasn’t just Seth wanting a better, cushy place on the top of the card – Dean knew better than that, but he had tried so hard to not acknowledge it, because whenever it escaped the crevices of his mind and resurfaced into his 2am thoughts, it ate at him, slowly chipping away at his heart.

It was because of Dean Ambrose.

Yes, Seth Rollins was an ambitious son of a bitch who would sell his brothers out to succeed, but Dean knew something would be different should he and Roman had stopped arguing for one second, and paid attention to Seth. He knew Seth was a child, an immature idiot who needed the attention, who needed the validation and affirmation that he was doing well, that he wasn’t going to be left behind. Dean knew. Roman knew as well. It wasn’t something they spoke about openly, but deep down, both of them carried the guilt that perhaps, if they had let go of their egos and looked out for each other, all of this bullshit may have never happened. Maybe, instead of backstabbing them and selling his soul to a manipulative son of a bitch, Seth would have spoken to them about his goals and ambition, and maybe they would be successful in each of their solo careers without harbouring any kind of hatred towards each other. Maybe, if they had properly taken care of Triple H, and made sure he never reached out to Seth, they wouldn’t be here. Maybe, if Dean had never let his temper and ego get to him, and never walked out on them, leaving Seth to pick up the pieces, they wouldn’t be here.

Maybe, if Dean had been better at _talking_ to Seth, they wouldn’t be here. But here he was, making the same mistake again, clawing at Seth with harsh words, hurting him.

There were so many maybes that circled Dean’s mind; he knew none of these reasons could ever justify what Seth had done to them, but it always plagued him, anyway. What if they hadn’t fought so often. What if they had paid attention to Seth. What if they had assured Seth that he would not be left behind. They _knew_ just how anxious, just how horribly _incapable_ he was, yet they left him to fend for himself.

Hell, they had even used Seth’s own insecurities against himself. Dean knew Seth’s tendencies more than anybody, enough to use it against him all those years ago. _More luggage than a rich girl with daddy issues. Can’t get through an airport without breaking down and asking one of them for help with his bags._ He’d found great comfort and glee in how much that had prodded at Seth, how much it visibly hurt him. Dean had found great delight in knowing that to Seth Rollins, getting rejected, or not being given the attention and love, or being treated like nobody, was very much like a stab to his heart. He’d thrived off seeing Seth’s fuming face after he’d been belittled, ignored, or intimidated. Seeing his sworn enemy’s soul being crushed had been an almost cathartic experience…

Dean shook his head. So much for priding themselves in unbreakable bonds and brotherhood; it was almost humiliating, thinking of all the times they’d bragged about their camaraderie to the masses. And at the thought of Seth planning secret rendezvous with Triple H, with his fake concerned look and warm, slimy hands reassuring a lost Seth all the while Dean and Roman were busy butting heads, well, Dean just swallowed down the feelings.

Dean sat on the sofa with his head cradled in his hands, taking in deep breaths. Kevin nipped at his toes while he replayed the conversation in his head, regretting every single word he’d said to Seth.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> @pizzaboyshop is my tumblr - come say hi. Feel free to discuss fics and headcanons with me.


	2. Chapter 2

Dean startled awake at clattering sounds in the kitchen and muttered curses. He’d fallen asleep, sprawled across the sofa – he’d spent an hour or so thinking about maybes, and what ifs, and agonising over his choices after Seth had stormed back into his room. Dean had decided that he was not going to find a hotel to crash in, not in this nothingness that was Iowa, thank you very much.

He blinked owlishly, his vision slowly adjusting to the darkness. He noticed a sleeping Kevin curled up on his chest, and immediately stilled. At least one resident of his house seemed to welcome him. He patted Kevin’s head gently.

His body and mind now fully awake at the disturbance, Dean grumbled as he noted the time on his phone—3am, of fucking course it was—and reorganised himself on the couch, his ears focused on whatever the hell Seth was doing in the kitchen. He heard the refrigerator being opened, the rattle of the ice tray, and the rustling of a plastic bag. Making himself an ice pack, Dean guessed. He tried to sit still, wondering, as he scratched Kevin’s ears absentmindedly, whether he should be pretending to be asleep. Perhaps that would be less awkward.

Seth not being able to sleep wasn’t new; he was already an irregular sleeper, so an injured knee would not have made his sleeping habits any better. Back when they were still together as the Shield, on nights when they were still buzzing from the adrenalin, Seth had often joined Dean on his infomercial runs on the television at 3am. They would rate products out of 10 ( _No, Dean, Wondermop is a far better invention than some stupid Wonder-whatever bullshit and deserves a solid 9, what the fuck are you thinking,_ Seth would grumble, and Dean would snicker at his petulance), while Roman snored away on the other bed.

Sometimes, Seth didn’t even sleep at all, something that had worried Dean until one day, after the shebang that was the betrayal, he finally realised that the reason Seth probably couldn’t sleep was because of the guilt from the secret rendezvous he had with his sugar daddy. The bitter taste was back in his tongue at the thought.

Seth didn’t even look fazed when his eyes landed on Dean as he entered the living room. He shuffled over to the couch with a fabric-covered plastic bag filled with ice cradled in his hand. Dean slowly sat up on the couch, Kevin in his arms. Seth simply glanced at Dean, who was staring intently at the ice pack from the couch, and seated himself at the other end. He gingerly iced his knee while Dean watched, and the two simply sat in silence, illuminated by the soft light filtering in from the kitchen.

“Your knee bothering you?” Dean asked, after what felt like a forever of silence.

But Seth didn’t bother to respond. He simply continued to ice his knee for a while, and a moment later, asked: “When are you leaving?”

“It’s fucking three in the morning, Seth,” griped Dean. “I’m not gonna leave, not when I spent money on the fucking flight to get here.”

“You wouldn’t have spent money if you didn’t come here in the first place,” Seth muttered. He iced his knee harder, suddenly with so much force Dean was almost waiting for the bag to split open.

Always needed to have the last word. Dean chose to ignore Seth’s comment – rather, he felt that he should simply keep quiet, lest he make Seth any angrier and actually kick him out of the house at 3 fucking am – and silence fell in the living room as Dean continued to mindlessly scratch a still-asleep Kevin, while Seth massaged his knee. It almost felt like old times again, watching one another tend to their injuries or sore joints after a match. Except right now, Dean was an unwelcomed guest shifting uncomfortably on the couch, and Seth wasn’t speaking animatedly to him as he used to back in the Shield.

After what felt like years, Seth finally opened his mouth again. “Guest bedroom’s down the hall, second door to your left.”

It took a moment for Dean to register what Seth had said. “What?” he asked dumbly.

“Guest bedroom. Down the hall, second door to your left,” Seth repeated. He wasn’t looking at Dean, instead glaring at his knee, icing it with even greater intensity. Dean nearly reached out to grab his wrist. “Go crash there.”

When Dean didn’t respond, his jaw still slack at Seth’s change of mind, Seth sighed, long-suffering. “I’m saying you can stay the night. And go take a shower. You look like a mess.”

Dean’s jaw snapped shut as his brain frantically processed the information. Right. Guest bedroom. Down the hall. Second door to the left. Shower. Right. Trying to hide the triumphant grin that threatened to spread across his face, Dean lifted Kevin from his lap and gently laid him down on the sofa. He couldn’t not say no to the invitation, not when Seth Rollins was so gracious enough to offer it after one of his tantrums. Not at this hour. And not when he was indeed feeling like a mess.

He stopped, just before he exited the living room. “Uh,” he started. Seth finally looked up at him with an irritated expression, and Dean couldn’t help but grin. “Where’s the bathroom?”

Seth sighed again. Dean swore he saw Seth roll his eyes, but he ducked his head before Dean could say anything. “First door to the left,” Seth muttered.

Dean’s grin grew even larger. “Thanks.”

But Dean didn’t go straight to the guest room after his shower; he instead flopped back onto the couch beside Seth, who was lazily sprawled on the couch, now watching infomercials. Dean massaged his stomach nervously, the sudden nostalgia hitting him so suddenly. It was, again, much like the Shield days, when they snuggled into one bed and giggled like teenagers while watching enthusiastic show hosts explain their ground breaking products.

On the TV, the show host had finished presenting ‘the most powerful vacuum cleaner on the market’. Dean stared back at the almost bulging eyes of the host and scoffed.

“8 out of 10,” he decided. “The most powerful vacuum my ass.”

Dean glanced at Seth, who was also staring intently at the TV screen. A moment passed—and Dean gulped nervously, wondering if Seth would reply—and much to his relief, Seth said, “9 out of 10.”

It wasn’t as wordy an answer as he used to give all those years back, but it had to do.

 

 

 

Dean’s eyes flew open.

The first thing he registered was the chilly air. Then the dull pain in his neck. When his eyes cleared, he looked around and remembered that he’d ended up falling asleep on the couch, his feet tangled with Seth’s.

“Fuck,” he croaked.

He craned his neck to see Seth sprawled on the couch, staring at the ceiling with glazed eyes. The television was turned onto the local 8am morning show now, the hosts announcing the local news – though Dean wondered if there was even anything eventful that went on in this city. Kevin was perched on Seth’s chest, lazily snuggling into his owner. The ice pack was now a plastic bag of water on the floor by the sofa.

Of course, being the idiot that they were, they had spent the whole night in the living room. Dean felt a stab of guilt at not bothering to check up on Seth, but quickly shook his head to devoid himself of any feelings that surged up for him. _You don’t owe him anything_ , he thought to himself, clenching his jaw tight.

“Morning,” Dean said, sitting up groggily. He hated that his voice sounded so rough.

Seth didn’t say anything, even when Kevin yipped at Dean in reply. He continued staring up at the ceiling, looking far too vulnerable laying on the sofa. Again, Dean tried to ward off the feelings.

The morning was chilly, and of course, Seth Rollins was a complete idiot and only wore shorts and a thin t-shirt in the almost chilly living room, unlike Dean who was wearing long sleeves and tracksuit pants. Dean leaned over and grabbed the wool throw, and gently placed it over Seth’s body. Now he wasn’t sure whether to be worried or not at Seth’s unflinching state.

But then Seth slowly opened his mouth. “My knee’s sore,” he moaned, voice croaky. Dean almost had to stop himself from reaching out to gently pat his head.

Kevin yipped again, and trotted off Seth’s chest to snuggle his injured knee. Did the pup realise his owner was in pain? Dean reached out to scratch Kevin’s ears, then shuffled over to the kitchen.

The kitchen was, again, like all the other areas in the house, an empty, boring stretch of space. Too-white walls, too empty cupboards and benches that looked like they hadn’t even been touched in a while. Dean wondered if Seth had bothered to cook anything for himself. Probably survived off paleo meals, he supposed; and, as predicted, when he peered into the fridge, he saw stacks of plastic meals that read _Trifecta._ Obsessively eating healthily to get back on track, he thought, if an obsession over paleo meals could be considered healthy. Dean wondered if Seth was aware that there were other food and drinks in the world other than paleo meals, pretentious deconstructed coffee, and craft beer. Not that Dean himself could say much about having a sophisticated palate, but unlike that idiot, he sure didn’t deprive his own body of good meals, such as a good homemade sandwich and fries.

It took Dean several guesses to find the zip lock bags, which had been haphazardly stashed into a small drawer. He grabbed the tray of ice – there were several stacks waiting for him in the freezer; obviously the knee had bothered Seth quite often – filled the bag, and covered it with a tea towel he’d also found, so it wouldn’t be too cold.

Dean paused and stared at the ice pack he’d whipped up, and shook his head in disbelief. Sometimes, he was too nice for his own good.

“Here.” Dean tossed the ice pack onto Seth’s stomach, to balance out the nice gesture.

Seth flinched at the sudden coldness, and scowled at Dean. And instantly, Dean felt much better, the alien feeling lifted off his shoulders. It was much easier to deal with a petulant, bratty Seth: the Seth he’d known and grown accustomed to over the years. A vulnerable Seth Rollins made him want to claw at his own chest.

“Thanks, I guess,” Seth muttered.

As Seth sat up gingerly, Dean walked over to the kitchen again – and immediately slowed down when he realised that he was speed-walking, _god_ – to get a cup of warm water and painkillers he’d found while looking through the kitchen drawers. He ignored Seth’s wide eyes as he handed him the cup and two pills.

“Thank you,” Seth said softly, staring at the cup. Putting the ice pack down for a moment, he carefully cradled the cup with two hands, looking at it almost reverently. Seth looked far too sickly, far too vulnerable for Dean’s liking. The Seth he knew jumped off titantrons and second storey balconies, and was a heartless son of a bitch who had sold his soul to the devil. He was not some pathetic loser incapable of taking care of himself. Dean had to tear his eyes away as Seth swallowed the pills.

Not bothering to reply to Seth’s appreciation, Dean plopped down on the other side of the sofa, grabbed a squirmy Kevin and scratched his belly.

They sat there for a while, Dean scratching Kevin till the small pup got sick of it and jumped off his lap, while Seth gingerly iced his knee with the makeshift pack. They didn’t look at each other – well, not really. Dean’s gaze was directed to the television, but his attention wasn’t on whatever Iowan morning TV show that was playing, instead directed towards Seth.

Then morning lapsed into noon, and Dean heard the faint sound of Seth’s stomach grumbling. Seth didn’t move from his spot on the couch, though, and instead looked at Dean expectantly.

“Wanna get lunch?” Dean asked.

It took a while for Seth to respond. “Maybe,” he said, rather petulantly.

Dean couldn’t help but roll his eyes.

 

 

 

“Seriously?”

“I brought pizza.” Dean shoved the boxes of pizza in Seth’s direction and invited himself into the house, which, again, was empty and devoid of any human warmth. Seth seemed huffy, but he didn’t push him out. Dean grinned triumphantly – perhaps last week’s visit was worth it, after all.

They didn’t speak much last week, but Dean did succeed in his initial goal of seeing how Seth was faring: if surviving off paleo meals, lying on the couch absentmindedly in nothing but a thin shirt and shorts, resembling a zombie could be considered anything remotely good, but it had to do.

“It’s 10am,” Seth said flatly. He didn’t drop the pizza, though. “Don’t you have a house show to get to?”

“Breakfast pizza, then,” Dean replied lightly. “Nothing wrong with eating pizza in the morning, man. And I finished my round of house shows.”

Seth didn’t look too impressed. “Why are you even here?”

“Thought you’d be sulking alone, so here I am.” Dean shrugged. “Don’t lie, man. You liked it when I dropped by last week.” More specifically, Dean had decided to drop by again to see how Seth was coping before he shipped himself to Birmingham for full-time recovery again, but Seth didn’t need to know that.

Seth seemed to have given up on Dean’s shenanigans, and followed him into the dining room with the pizza boxes in hand, Kevin by his heels, yipping excitedly. Dean grabbed a bottle of water on the way, and didn’t hesitate to dive into the morning pizzas, shoving a slice of pepperoni pizza in his mouth.

They sat there for a while, Dean on one side of the dining table – again, black wood with black chairs that was a stark contrast to the white walls of the room – and Seth sitting on the other, with Kevin snuggled somewhere beneath the table, gnawing away on a treat. Dean wondered, for a brief second, if this was what it would have been like, if he had had the guts to actually ask Seth to move in with him, ask him out on a proper date, ask him to be his boyfriend. But he quickly shook his head and decided to fill the void with another slice of pizza. It was too late to wonder about the possibilities, and it was too early in the day to get sappy over Seth Rollins.

“You going off to Birmingham soon?” Dean finally asked.

Seth looked at him. “Yeah,” he replied.

The conversation cut off again while Seth returned to his pizza and Dean racked his brain for another question to add to the talk.

“So… do you think you’ll be ready for…” Dean trailed off, and grimaced as he realised this may not have been the best question to ask, but, of course, he was an idiot, and did not think things through.

But Seth didn’t seem perturbed. There was no determination in his eyes, however, just acceptance of the situation. Just a sallow, defeated face, with an uneasy, tired energy that unsettled Dean.

“I dunno.”

“Right.”

The silence made Dean almost itchy and erratic. It was usually Seth who filled the silences with his ramblings, and with Seth now so silent nowadays, especially with this almost overwhelming anxious energy he was now exuding, Dean now felt the need to drown the room with noise.

“You should be careful,” Dean said, “you don’t want to overwork yourself and… you know what I mean? I know it sucks not being able to wrestle, and everything’s not clear, but you can’t over push yourself, and y’do that a lot. Then you punish yourself when shit goes down the drain. And you might, I dunno, fuck yourself up for that. You do that a lot. Y’know what I’m sayin’?” He was running his mouth at this point, but it was much too _quiet,_ and Dean never did well with quiet.

Seth glared at him. Dean could almost feel the tantrum rising within Seth, but he’d decided a while ago that he would much rather deal with an angry Seth Rollins than a quiet, hollow one. It was easier to stomach. Not to mention, Dean was completely incapable of making good decisions for himself, anyway. He was very much like Seth in that regard.

“C’mon man, you’re not gonna talk to me?” Dean finally asked, a small outburst—that was what Seth Rollins was good at, filling silences with his stupid stories. _Talk. Fucking talk. Please, say something._ Frustration slowly bubbled within him, and he berated himself for ruining what was almost a pleasant atmosphere only twenty minutes ago.

“You trying to be my therapist?” Seth finally answered.

“Maybe? I just want you to fucking _talk,_ Seth, it’s too fucking quiet in here, and, and you’re just sitting there, and you look exactly the same as you were a few years ago when we were actually a team, except you’re not talking anymore. You look like you’re about to fucking _sink._ You don’t talk, you’re too quiet now, and I don’t know what you’re thinking—”

“Do you realise,” Seth interrupted, with a bitter smile, “that this is exactly the same conversation that we had years ago, except I was the one begging you to talk?”

Dean inhaled sharply. He had suddenly plunged into a pool of memories he’d tried to repress, to ignore; he tried resurfacing, but Seth was there, pushing him back in. _Remember the conversation? Remember how you refused to talk, and I sat there, begging for you to just tell me what was going on in your head so we could somehow fix this, so you wouldn’t feel this way, so we could mend the cracks and be a team again?_

“Funnily enough, we were sitting at a table just like this one, in the motel room that we booked for the three of us, because remember how we didn’t have enough money to sleep in separate rooms? And I asked you why you did that. Why you’d walked off after you pissed off Roman. I asked you where you went, what exactly you were angry about, and what the _fuck_ happened.”

Seth let out a hysterical laugh, his breathing now laboured. Dean tried swallowing down the bile that threatened to rise up in his throat, but Seth now seemed adamant to continue talking, to continue submerging Dean in the memories.

“And I had to make sure that Roman was okay, who, by the way, was also fucking unresponsive and decided to walk off on me”—Seth let out a hysterical laugh again—“while also making sure that you hadn’t disappeared off to nowhere and crashed the fucking rental. And then you had the fucking gall to come back to our room stinking of alcohol, with your face all battered up, because you’d got into a bar fight. And you refused to let me check your injuries. You refused to talk. You refused to apologise to Roman. And I sat there, at the table, trying to get you to talk, to say even just _one_ word, but you didn’t.”

“Seth—”

“The same thing happened again, and again, and again. I couldn’t take it anymore. You guys were always walking off, fighting, leaving me behind, and do you realise how _suffocating_ that was? I already had enough people whispering behind my back that I was going to be the one left behind, that I was the one who will disappear in the shuffle. Oh, here’s Dean, he’s the one who takes the leader role, he talks a lot, cool. And here’s Roman, he’s the powerhouse who just glares at the camera. Wow, look at their presence. And oh, there’s that idiot called Seth who has to pick up the fucking pieces whenever their egos clash! Seth Rollins isn’t championship material. He’ll just be in the mid-card to rot. _Awesome_!” Seth looked at Dean with an almost crazed smile, his eyes wide open, hysterical. “And the only person who actually reached out to me about it was Hunter. He let me _breathe_. He understood me when you refused to acknowledge me.”

“And you thought _betraying_ us would be a good idea?” Dean spat, his hands balling into fists. “Well, congratulations, now your knee’s fucked up, and you’re all alone.”

He tried to ignore the fact that everything he had been wondering, had been feeling guilting about, had been _dreading_ had just been confirmed, that if he and Roman maybe had stopped bickering, had stop walking off on Seth, had actually stopped and thought about how Seth had _felt,_ then maybe they wouldn’t be in this fucking situation. The thought circled around his neck and began to choke him.

“You were going to do it anyway! You were walking off, you let people get to your head, Dean! We were going to implode one way or another, and I just pulled the trigger before you did, because I am _not_ going to be left behind, I refuse to—”

“Oh, that’s fucking rich, coming from you, you’re just trying to make _excuses,_ because that’s all you’re good at, Seth, victimising yourself and pretending you’re always fucking right, just like that time you walked out on us during the match against the Wyatts,” Dean spat. He knew this wasn’t a one way street, that this was a balanced scale, that this was an _if only we had actually communicated about this,_ type of situation, but his ego, that damn ego that wouldn’t let him back down and almost forced him to run his mouth. “ _You_ were the one who stabbed me in the back and hit me with a steel chair. _You_ were the one who started this fucking mess. _You_ were the dumbass who let himself get screwed over by the devil. _You_ were the one who broke my heart—” Dean stopped immediately, struggling for breath, his heart _pounding_ at the stupid confession. Fuck. Shit.

Seth stared at him with wide eyes, the confession obviously coming across as a shock to him, but whatever circled inside his mind at that moment, it seemed that he decided to ignore it.

“Oh, I’m sick of this revisionist _bullshit,_ ” Seth seethed. “ _Me?_ I started this? Did you just conveniently ignore what I fucking said? Are you going to fucking forget all those times you walked out on us, on _me,_ and how you lashed out at me, how you couldn’t keep your fucking temper? Do you not remember all those times you and Roman left me out of the equation, and having no regard for _me?_ You _never_ cared about me Dean, you never cared about me enough, so how dare you say I broke your heart, how _fucking_ dare you!”

Seth stood up from his chair—it was a miracle Dean hadn’t stood up and scared Kevin away with all their screaming—and began pacing around. “And what did you say before? Oh yeah, that I had more luggage than a rich girl with daddy issues, that I couldn’t go long before breaking down at the airport and asking you guys for help. Well fuck you, Dean, you knew all that about me, yet you just left me to _rot._ You always expected me to be there for _you_ whenever you got pissed off and got drunk and expected me to always open the damn hotel door for you. _You_ were the one who walked out first. _You_ were the one who created the cracks. _You_ drove me away and I had to walk out before I suffocated myself. And you know what? Yeah, I fucked up, I knew I fucked up as soon as I hit Roman in the back, I admit it! I fucked up and I screwed up my friendships instead of just asking for a break. That’s why I tried to be nice and pretend that this had nothing to do with any of you, so you guys could just forget about me and move the fuck on, but _you_ were the one who decided you couldn’t take that and made this all personal—”

What bullshit—Dean couldn’t take this anymore; Seth was screaming, but words were no longer registering in his brain. He quickly shook his head and interrupted, “I’m fucking sick of you and your excuses, Seth, I’ll fuck off so that your prissy ass can re-evaluate your fucked-up life and your fucked-up issues!”

“ _GET OUT!_ ” Seth screamed back. “I was right, you’re just here to laugh at me—”

Dean didn’t hear the rest of Seth’s shrieking. Ignoring a whimpering Kevin, he grabbed his belongings and ran out of the house.

And a week later, when he finally decided to think back on the incident while laid out haphazardly on the bed of a cheap motor inn, Dean had to admit it reminded him of those moments when he stormed out on Seth after arguing with Roman, all those years ago. Back when he and Roman had made it a habit to walk out on Seth after their nth time arguing with one another. Back when it was all up to Seth to be the peacemaker. Back when they made it a habit out of ignoring Seth’s pleas and looks of disappointment.

It was a never-ending cycle, and it left a sour taste in his mouth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your comments and kudos on the first chapter. It's really appreciated. I'm also on tumblr, @pizzaboyshop.


	3. Chapter 3

Dean next saw Seth during Wrestlemania, just before Seth made his way out to the ring.

It hadn’t been a part of Dean’s plan, to be caught out by Seth. He’d planned on watching him from afar—he’d heard that Seth was running on a fever, and that the staff were worried about him, some even asking him to not go along with the match. But of course, Seth Rollins was a stubborn idiot, desperate to reclaim himself and defeat his demons. And Dean had just planned to watch him, not because he was _worried,_ no, he’d just wanted to see how Seth was faring, that was all. It was what he muttered to himself out of reassurance whenever staff glanced at him quizzically as they walked past. 

Seth, ready in his gear, looked utterly tired, the whole world weighing across his shoulders, pushing him down to the ground. It was a look that Seth had quite often nowadays, except now much worse with his blotchy face and bloodshot eyes, obviously the fever not doing him any favours. Dean couldn’t help but grit his teeth as Seth stared absentmindedly towards the gorilla entrance.

Surely Seth would not get out of there with a win, or, if Dean were to be dramatic, _alive,_ at least with his head intact. Surely one swing of the ol’ sledgehammer from Triple H would crack Seth’s head open, and that would be it—Seth’s journey to become a better man done, his redemption chapter finished mid-sentence, instead after many satisfying, beautifully crafted sentences and paragraphs.

Should Dean feel excited about that possibility? Was that what Seth deserved? Dean couldn’t bring himself to say yes. But he’d hoped that Seth could defy the odds and defeat his former mentor, defeat the man who had planted doubt and self-hatred in his mind, and rise again. And maybe, at the end of the chapter that was Seth’s redemption story, Dean would be there. Doing what exactly, Dean was currently unsure of; would he be there to congratulate Seth? Would he be there to hug him, and welcome him back? Or would he be there to demand answers? Would this match even be the true end to Seth’s redemption chapter? Dean shifted uncomfortably by the container boxes, the possibilities swirling around his head and digging into his brain.

Then Seth caught Dean’s eyes. Dean flinched. They both stared at each other for a while, the area suddenly submerged in deafening quiet. Dean felt like he was in a trance, unable to take his eyes off Seth, fucking Seth with his dark circles and vulnerable eyes.

“Fuck,” Dean muttered, finally tearing his eyes away. He swung on his heels to walk off. But when he couldn’t help but look back again one last time, he saw Seth standing there, watching him with weary eyes.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

They saw each other again when Dean was drafted to Raw.

Dean was surrounded by his colleagues, each of them welcoming him back to the locker room. Seth wasn’t part of the group; he was quietly watching him from the corner.

They didn’t speak to each other.

It didn’t bother Dean; it was what he had expected, after all.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Days turned into weeks, and the silence finally began prodding at Dean.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

They—Roman mostly, but Dean also—had always overestimated Seth’s willingness to take account for his own actions. All those years ago, when they were on the road together, the three of them against the world, they had always in some way forgiven Seth for everything he did. Roman had always been, in Dean’s eyes, a forgiving, generous person: something about having a big family, and when you have a big family, you can’t afford to hold grudges and have a dramatic apology and forgiveness session. Something about Seth being their little brother, and _older brothers always gotta take care of their baby brother, right, Dee?_

Dean hadn’t particularly agreed on it back then; he’d always been an eye for an eye kind of man, but somehow, whenever he faced Seth Rollins again, all the resolve and frustration melted away, and Dean ended up forgiving him, anyway. And he’d been okay with that. At the time, having Seth sleeping soundly in his arms had been worth more than anything in the world to him.

Their biggest mistake, perhaps, was to let Seth off the hook for abandoning them in the middle of a match against the Wyatt Family. All in the name of—what had that scumbag said? Teamwork? Yes. All in the name of _teamwork._ Something about, _making you guys realise how I felt._

Dean had felt helplessness. He’d felt heartbreak. Was that what Seth Rollins felt whenever he was around Dean and Roman? Dean pretended it didn’t tug at his guts whenever he remembered back to that night: when he’d reached out for a tag, but Seth didn’t reciprocate. Maybe it was the first time Seth had shown signs of how sick and tired he’d felt. Maybe it was the first hint of the stunt he was going to pull on them a couple of months later.

If Dean’s last visit to Seth’s dreary house had taught him anything, it was that Seth’s betrayal had most likely been a sick payback for what Roman and Dean made him feel, mixed in with his own dastardly ambitions. Letting himself be seduced by the devil that was Hunter Hearst Helmsley, not talking to them about how he’d felt, for letting himself think that he wasn’t welcomed in the group, that he was going to get left behind while his brothers walked off without him—

_Me? I started this? Did you just conveniently ignore what I fucking said? Are you going to forget all those times you walked on us, on_ me, _and how you lashed out at me, how you couldn’t keep your fucking temper… You refused to talk… And I sat there, at the table, trying to get you to talk, to say even_ one _word, but you didn’t…_

Dean inhaled sharply at the memory, frustration and anger overtaking him at first, but he immediately deflated in defeat.

Seth’s need for affirmation, and his habit of only floating towards people who provided him with validation, fake or not, were all flaws that were ingrained in the very makeup, the very fibre, of his being. It wasn’t something that could be easily thrown away, it wasn’t something that could easily be forgotten or _fixed,_ even if Seth did destroy his demons and began the next chapter of his journey to become a better man. And it showed. It showed in the form of the scumbag being afraid to approach Dean and owning up for what he did. Of not apologising to him or Roman, the two people who needed his apology the most. Of only having the guts to hover around Roman, who had always been so forgiving and lenient, and pretending everything was alright again. (And Roman—damn his hospitality and tendency to get worried over self-sabotaging idiots; he’d obviously ended up never being able to truly hate Seth as much as he was expected to.) Always scuttering around whenever Dean walked past, looking at anything else but him. He was childish like that.

No matter how many times he’d tried to appeal to the masses as _The Man,_ or _The Kingslayer,_ or as someone who had changed for the better and destroyed the version of himself he’d come to hate, at the end of the day, Seth Rollins was scared. He was scared of rejection, of the glares, of… of whatever the fuck he probably thought that Dean was going to give him, because that scumbag had seemed to rekindle his friendship with everyone backstage except for Dean.

Dean had long ago decided that Seth’s redemption chapter did not end at Wrestlemania. Surely he was allowed a say in it; after all, he had to bear the brunt of Seth’s many malicious acts. Surely Dean could decide that Seth defeating Triple H at the grandest stage of them all could _not_ be the full stop to the redemption chapter of his scumbag life. Seth, on the other hand, probably believed that everyone would forget his deeds once he defeated The Authority, defeated his mentor, overcame the odds while running high on a fever, but then ignore the one person he’d broken to a complete and utter mess.

(Dean pretended he hadn’t seen Seth collapse in the gorilla after defeating Triple H, face blotchy, tears streaking down his cheeks, deliriously asking for Roman and Dean as staff rushed to him for support.)

“—I know that too, you know,” Roman interrupted.

Dean flinched as Roman’s voice dragged him back into reality.

They were on their way to the next house show, in the usual car arrangement: Roman by the wheel, Dean in the passenger seat. (If Seth were here, he’d be driving with Dean accompanying him at the front, while Roman snored away in the backseat. But Dean tried to ignore the memories.) Somehow, the conversation had shifted towards discussing Seth Rollins, a topic that had been taboo for a while until a few minutes ago, when Roman finally decided to tentatively talk about him.

“You were the one who asked about what I thought about him,” Dean grumbled, flicking a stray fluff from his jeans. Perhaps he’d said a bit too much; he shifted uncomfortably in his seat, suddenly feeling open and vulnerable, as Roman raised his eyebrow at him.

It was months after Dean’s surprise visit to Seth (also known as: when he stormed out of Seth’s empty, chilly house after a heated argument and never spoke to him again since), and after Wrestlemania, where Seth Rollins, the crazy fucker that he was, defeated his former mentor running high on a fever, doped on drugs, all with a fucked-up knee.

Seth Rollins, Dean thought as he leaned back into the passenger seat, was the most idiotic, self-destructive son of a bitch he’d ever met—truly.

“I was asking what you thought about his recent attitude, not give me a recap on his issues,” Roman said dryly. “I know the guy too.”

Dean pursed his lips at the comment. He wasn’t trying to—

“I know you weren’t trying to say you know him better than I do, don’t worry about it, man,” Roman reassured Dean. “But you probably know him differently.” Roman glanced at Dean, and focused back on the outstretch of road ahead of them.

_Differently._ Dean wanted to ask what Roman had meant by that, but he was too cowardly to ask. It was a topic he’d been trying to avoid.

“I can see that he’s trying to get better,” Roman said after a while, exhaling deeply. When Dean didn’t respond, Roman asked, “What do you think?”

Dean swallowed thickly and looked out the window. “What do you mean?” He feigned nonchalance instead.

“Y’know. Slowly owning up to what he did. Losing the damn ego. He’s trying, I can tell.” Roman readjusted his grip on the wheel, glancing over at Dean again. “You heard what he said to Hunter during the contract signing.”

Dean was reminded of what Seth had said to Triple H: _Maybe I deserve this. I liked myself before I met you._ It wasn’t that Dean had watched the segment live; he wouldn’t—couldn’t. Roman simply texted him a link to the video with no other message, and Dean had replayed the video more than necessary in the darkness of his hotel suite. It haunted him.

But it wasn’t something that could easily erase everything that had happened between them.

“So you’re saying we should forget everything that happened?” Dean asked gruffly. “Even after he mocked us and destroyed everything we worked for? Even after he made sure that we went through hell?”

“ _No_ , Dee,” Roman said firmly, “no, that’s not what I was saying, I’m not suggesting we _forget_ everything he did, you know it’s not up to me—”

“You were always so soft on him, y’know that?” Dean tried to keep the conversation dipping into dangerous territories, but it was difficult, trying to bite down the accusatory tone. He vaguely thought back to Wrestlemania again, when he’d walked in on a tearful Roman hovering over a sobbing Seth at the infirmary, post-match. He’d closed the door quietly on them, and made his way back to his hotel suite.

_Always so soft on him._

_Always._

“He’s going through a really hard time, Dean,” Roman said carefully. “You’ve seen him, right? He’s sinking, man.”

That was his breaking point. “ _So am I_!” Dean shouted, hands balled into fists, nails digging into his palms.

“Dee, I know—”

“—I went through a whole lotta shit too, and all because _he_ decided it was okay to throw us in the gutter,” Dean seethed. All those nights when he couldn’t fall asleep, all the matches he’d lost because of Seth’s lackeys, all the fucking _heartbreak_ , everything was because of Seth Rollins. Everything was because Seth Rollins so wisely thought it was perfectly fine to throw away the two people who would give up their everything for him. “Everything that’s happening to him right now is _his_ fault, and it’s karma for the shit he put _me_ through—”

“ _I KNOW_!” Roman exploded, raw emotions splattering everywhere—Dean instinctively drew back at the sheer force of Roman’s frustration, the _anguish_ spewing out of him. “I know all the shit _we_ went through was because of _him_. You’re not the only one who got hurt, alright Dean? _I was there too._ I was there when Hunter took him away from us, and we couldn’t do shit. _I was the one who took the first hit from him_.” Shaking in his seat, he swerved to the side and slowly stopped the car in the parking lane, breathing uneasily.

“Ro—”

“Every day since then,” Roman whispered, “I’ve been trying to hate Seth, remembering _everything_ he did to _me_ , to _us_. But every time I see him, I can’t help but remember the kid he used to be, and I lose it all over again.” He sat in the driver’s seat for a while, his forehead resting on the wheel. He took a shuddering breath.

“Sorry,” Dean muttered, after a while.

Roman hummed, and looked out the windscreen with a faraway expression. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Shouldn’t have shouted.”

“Nah, man,” Dean murmured, “it’s fine. I started it.”

Dean vaguely wondered when it had been the last time they’d had a conversation like this. Had they ever had such a conversation discussing Seth? They’d never been great at dealing with anything, in retrospect; feelings, frustrations, their ambitions and hope for the future, blah.

_And people wonder why we ended up like this,_ Seth had said to him a few months back. And it was true.

Yeah, Dean bitterly agreed, no wonder why we ended up like this.

“You ever think,” Roman started, “if you and I didn’t fight all the damn time back then, we would have Seth with us right now?”

All this time, Dean had thought he’d been the only one who had thought that possibility. Had it eaten away at Roman all this time as well? He looked so small, curling into himself, and for a brief second, Dean wanted to scream to release all his own frustrations.

It took Dean a moment to answer. “All the fucking time.” Dean looked out the windscreen, pondering whether to confirm Roman’s thoughts. _Seth said so himself. If we weren’t such fucking idiots, he would be here with us right now._

Dean glanced at Roman, who looked utterly wrecked as he leaned his forehead on the steering wheel. Dean decided against it. Some baggage were best handled alone.

Instead, Dean asked, “You ever think about what you’re gonna say to him if he apologises?”

“ _When_ he apologises? Or if?”

“If.” He wasn’t going to get his hopes up.

Roman let out a weak laugh. “You hung up about that?”

“I deserve to.”

Dean had seethed by his lonesome in a dimly lit hotel room, wondering about the possibility of ever seeing Seth Rollins at his mercy, thinking about just how _cathartic_ it would be, hearing him finally crumble down, break down his confident façade and utter an apology as he crawled around Dean’s feet sorrowfully. In Dean’s imagination, Seth Rollins would admit to avoiding Dean, and avoiding apologising to him because he was pathetic and scared. _I’m sorry, Dean, I’m sorry, please, I’m so sorry, please—please forgive me, I’m sorry…_

And Dean had imagined grabbing his face, grip tight on his jaw, looking him in the eye, sneering, and telling him that he wasn’t going to forgive him—ever. Not now, not tomorrow. And he’d laugh, watching Seth’s face whiten in fear, contorting and breaking down into ugly sobs. In his imagination, Seth tried to grab at Dean’s feet and beg for forgiveness again, and Dean simply kicked his hands away and laughed even more.

It was pathetic, in retrospect, but during those nights when he couldn’t sleep, or when his back still throbbed from the steel chair stunt, it was what helped soothe his anger.

(He also had another scenario, a much tender, loving one, planned out in his head, but that was reserved for the nights he sorely missed Seth in his arms.)

Roman, apparently, had other plans. “I dunno, to be honest. Maybe punch him in the arm. Maybe hug him. Maybe talk his ear off.” Roman shrugged.

Dean stared at Roman, jaw slack. Of course he would. Roman Reigns, with all his patience and love for his brothers, was a better person than Dean Ambrose could ever be. And Dean found solace in that. It was a fact he’d accepted a long time ago, even when his competitiveness and jealousy towards Roman was at its peak all those years ago.

Roman sighed, and Dean could almost see the tiredness weigh down on him even further, rooting him in the ground. “Towards the end, before Seth left us… I hated seeing him. He looked so fucking _tired,_ y’know? And it bothered me so much. Later, I realised I hated seeing him because deep down, I knew he was tired of me. And of you. He was so fucking tired of us man, and I knew that, but I kept fucking up. I wasn’t there for him. We weren’t there for each other. Remember that? And then _that_ happened.”

A chair shot to Roman. Deafening silence across the arena as everyone watched in surprise. Dean’s heart breaking into a million pieces. A chair shot to Dean’s abdomen. Then another one to his back. And another. Another.

“Then he started doing actually fucked up things, so it was easier to hate him, but—this is gonna sound corny—but whenever I see his eyes, I remember he’s _baby brother_ , y’know? Next thing I know, I’m still calling him little brother out of habit. I’m trying to make sure he doesn’t fuck his knee up again, and I’m looking out for him to make sure he doesn’t get in trouble.”

“Yeah,” Dean said hoarsely. “I know.” And that was the problem. Years later, Dean still felt a pull towards Seth, even after the ride through hell Seth had presented him with. He’d struggle to fall asleep, thinking of the deeds Seth had done one night, then sleep soundly with infomercials playing on the TV the next night.

The tension in the car loosened, and they sat in silence before Dean opened his mouth. “No use blaming ourselves,” Dean murmured. He could feel Roman’s eyes on him, but Dean couldn’t meet the gaze. “There’s no use thinking who made who walk away, all that bullshit. What’s done is done. We all fucked up. We all lost the ball.”

“Yeah,” Roman said after a while. He looked sobered up again, staring out the window with dark eyes. “We fucked up. Majorly.” He let out a shaky laughter. “We’re fuckin’ idiots, aren’t we?”

“We sure fuckin’ are.”

They chuckled humourlessly. Roman started up the car again and they made the rest of their way to the next city, all the while drowning themselves in radio music.

They were nearing their hotel when Roman spoke up again.

“I still stand by what I said,” Roman said. “I think he’s trying to become a better person. Keyword, trying. When he saved me last year by jumping off the damn cage, and the way he kept hovering around me, I dunno. He doesn’t laugh like a fuckin’ egomaniac, either. It’s just his normal laugh, now.” He grinned, glancing at Dean with warm eyes. “He’s slowly turning back to our Seth again.”

_Our Seth._ Dean hadn’t spoken to Seth—nor did he even see him around enough—to know what that really meant, or how relieved Roman felt, and it pained Dean to admit it. The pain contorted into jealousy, then frustration, then rage towards Seth, but quickly morphed into defeat. He wondered, for a brief second, just how long it would take Dean to be able to witness it. To have _their_ Seth, beaming in front of him again.

Roman flicked on the indicators and drove into the hotel carpark. For a moment, they sat there in silence in their parking space, enveloped by the neon lights of the cheap vacation motel signs next door.

“And who knows? Maybe he’s getting ready to apologise,” Roman said softly. “It won’t be easy for him. We should know more than anybody how much that _sucks._ But it got us closure, right?”

Dean remembered back to that night, after the _betrayal_ , where they both mustered up the courage to apologise for being a piece of shit to each other. It was a sober moment for them, a moment to put their egos in check, where they decided to completely put past their grudges for the sake of pulling through the hell that Seth Rollins had created for them.

_Sorry for walking out on you so many times. Sorry for pushing your buttons all the time. Sorry for…_

Yeah. That sucked. But it got them closure.

“Where did you learn to get all deep?” Dean asked.

“Nah, man. I’m just less emotionally constipated than you and Seth,” Roman said dryly.

They grinned at each other, with Dean feeling grounded for the first time in a while.

“I’m not sure if I can accept him,” Dean confessed. “Or his apology. Yet.” He’d never been a good person, and he knew he’d never be a good a person as Roman. He’d never been a forgiving person, either, never someone who could let go of things so easily. And because Seth was _Seth,_ a fucking enigma that prodded at his brain and his heart, everything was even more complicated; Dean wasn’t sure just how he would be able to let Seth back into his life again.

(He tried to ignore his voice of reason calmly telling him that Seth had never left his life; this was _not_ the time to be reminded that Seth Rollins had saturated his life since their first meeting.)

Roman looked at him, eyes soft. “Yeah, of course,” he murmured.

“But he’s always been a big part of me, y’know?” Dean sighed. “It’s like, every corner I turn, he’s there. Fuck that guy.”

He was water, and Seth a drop of ink, slowly diffusing and invading every part of Dean. And Dean wasn’t sure what to think of that. A younger Dean would have been embarrassed to know someone had taken up such a big space in his heart—life. Fuck.

Dean took a deep breath, and leaned back into the passenger seat, covering his face with his hands. “I miss him,” Dean confessed, mumbling into his hands. “Maybe.”

He could feel Roman’s eyes on him. Slowly, Roman grasped Dean’s shoulder, and squeezed it warmly.

“You love him,” he said softly.

It wasn’t a question. Not an excited confirmation. Just a statement of fact.

_Was it a fact?_

Dean wasn’t compelled to deny it. But he wasn’t sure if he could confirm it. _Love_ never seemed to be enough to completely define what he’d felt for Seth right now. Perhaps it was the right description before Seth had betrayed them. Maybe. Now, confusion always seemed more befitting.

Instead, he tried to deflect. “You love him too,” Dean muttered.

Roman chuckled. “Well, yeah. Kinda different to the way you do, though.”

And with that, Roman hopped out of the car. “Think that’s enough emotional talk for the day. We’re _done_. Now let’s go get drinks or something.”

Dean blinked. “Yeah,” he said hoarsely. “I’ll shout.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this update came late! this chapter is heavily based on my own headcanons on how roman feels about seth. again, thank you so much for the kudos and comments. 
> 
> come find me at pizzaboyshop.tumblr.com :')


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